


Entirely Unexpected

by RazzAppleMagic



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cabin Fic, Canon-Typical Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Canon-Typical Mentions of Depression, Cole's Dad Has Got It Goin On, Connor And Cole Are Friends, Eventual Smut, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson Deserves Happiness, Hank Anderson Struggles With Depression, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Lumberjack Hank, M/M, Mutual Pining, Snowed In, stacy's mom au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazzAppleMagic/pseuds/RazzAppleMagic
Summary: Connor had prepared himself for a lot of things when it came to this trip, but he had not prepared himself for Hank Anderson.Now, there is only one thing that Connor is certain of: This is going to be a really, really long five days.In which, Connor goes to stay with Cole’s family for the holidays and finds himself very, very attracted to Cole’s dad. The Stacy’s Mom AU that no one asked for.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 51
Kudos: 59





	1. Oh. Shit.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally have enough of this AU finished to feel confident enough in posting it. I’ve got most of chapter 2 and 3 finished and I hope to be able to update this on a bi-weekly basis (or even weekly if we’re feelin’ spicy). This is canon-divergent where almost everything is the same except that Hank’s wife was killed in the car accident in 2035 and Cole was born a few years earlier than his canon birthday. The rest is explained in the story. Thank you for being here — I hope you enjoy my first HankCon multi-chap :) Rated E for future smut.

“Hey, do you want to be lab partners?” 

Those are the first kind words that Connor ever hears spoken to him. When he looks up from his text book, one of his classmates is turned around in his chair, grinning widely and looking straight at Connor. Which, all things considered, is definitely a little weird. 

Connor isn’t really used to having people talk to him. He’s also not really used to having people look at him with big face-splitting smiles and expectant eyes like they  _ want _ to talk to him. 

He’s used to people looking — they’re always looking, trying to steal a glance at him when they think he can’t see them. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Connor doesn’t really miss much. He wasn’t designed to. 

Which is why it sort of catches him off guard when he hears the question. When the professor mentioned that they’d need to have partners for the semester, Connor immediately began running conversations in his head to determine the best course of action to get out of having to work with anyone. He’d been down this road before — no one was ever interested in working with Robocop. 

He found that humans had a hard time working with him because they couldn’t get past the whole: “I was literally designed to complete these tasks” aspect of his existence or the fact that he had the entirety of the World Wide Web in his brain at all times. Humans had a tendency to feel inadequate or challenged by Connor, their insecurities always got in the way of their ability to form any sort of meaningful relationship with Connor or to feel like they could contribute equal parts to a shared project. Connor learned early on that it was best to just let humans be when it came to this sort of thing. It was better for everyone. 

Androids on the other hand were an entirely different story. Androids had a tendency to base their reluctance to work with Connor on his model number. Which, Connor thinks is fair. He’s an RK800 after all, one of five of his kind. 

RK800 units were designed with a specific purpose in mind: to hunt and catch deviants. Connor was not designed to “fit in” with androids, he was designed to see their flaws. He made international news in the weeks leading up to the revolution back in 2038, but for all of the wrong reasons (though, he didn’t realize that at the time). Sure, he switched sides when the time called for it, but there were still androids that felt… uneasy, being around him. Connor doesn’t blame them for feeling that way. He’d probably feel the same if their situations were reversed. So he doesn’t try to push it when it comes to androids, either. He understands why they don’t like him, doesn’t blame them for not wanting to work with him.

Connor never pushes it. He’s just used to doing things alone. That’s how it’s always been. 

So when his classmate leans closer, smiling so wide that Connor can see the gap in his two front teeth, and asks him the same question again, Connor is completely thrown off his usual guard. 

“I’m sorry?” Connor asks, leaning back in his seat. 

“We have to buddy-up for this semester,” his classmate — Cole Anderson, a face scan tells Connor — explains, gesturing towards the syllabus in his hand. “I was wondering if you’d want to partner up with me?” 

Connor can feel his LED burn red as he tries to process the situation. Surely, it must be a prank? 

“You’d like to partner with me?” Connor asks. 

“Uhm.” Cole scrunches his eyebrows, a little crease appearing on his forehead. “Yeah?” 

“Is this a joke?” Connor’s processors stutter a little on that one. Nothing about his scans of Cole’s body language indicate that he’s joking, but Connor hasn’t had the best track record in recognizing sarcasm from humans. 

“No,” Cole says, confused. “Why would I joke about this? Do you already have someone else you’re working with?” 

Connor doesn’t. “I don’t.” 

“Great,” Cole says, grinning again. “I’ll just sign us up then and let the professor know.” He clicks his pen. “You’re Connor, right?” 

Connor swallows — an artificial response. Nervous. He nods. “Yes.” 

“Cool, cool.” Cole writes down Connor’s name where it says  _ lab partner _ on his syllabus. “I’m Cole, by the way. Cole Anderson. Can I give you my number?” 

It happens so fast. Faster than Connor can really process all at once. First, he’s signing up to be lab partners with a complete stranger that doesn’t seem to mind that he’s an android with Cyberlife’s fastest computer built into his brain. Next, he’s getting lunch with Cole in the dining hall, hanging out with him on the quad, talking about taking classes together again in the future. 

Cole uses the word “friend” on the 42nd day of knowing Connor, and hearing it does something strange to Connor’s processors that he can’t quite explain. He supposes that he just never really considered himself to be the type of person to have “friends”, but if his first friend is going to be anyone, he’s happy that it’s Cole Anderson. 

Cole is unlike any human that Connor’s ever interacted with. He’s snarky, quick-witted, and sarcastic. He has a lot of ideas and ambitions that Connor finds so incredibly entrancing to listen to. When they’re together, there’s never a dull moment between them. When Connor is with Cole, he feels himself relax. He lets himself unwind, just a little, and gives this whole “being alive” thing a try. 

Cole laughs when Connor tells him that he wasn’t sure if Cole was being sarcastic when he first asked if they wanted to be partners for class. He assures Connor that although he is sarcastic 90% of the time, he wasn’t being sarcastic that day. The knowledge of that makes Connor feel warm all over. 

Cole never makes it a big deal that Connor is an android, but he also doesn’t ignore it which Connor really appreciates. He asks Connor questions, but doesn’t pry. He’s always considerate to make sure that when they go to a bar that there’s something for Connor to drink too (though, the Thirium versions of “alcohol” are way too overpriced for Connor to ever really indulge beyond a drink or two). Cole introduces Connor to some of his friends and slowly, college doesn’t suck as much as it once did. 

Connor doesn’t really  _ need _ to go to college. It’s not like he has a hard time processing new information or learning new skills, but now that androids have been granted autonomy they are expected to “earn” their way into jobs just like “everyone else”. Connor doesn’t complain though — he likes college. 

It gives him an opportunity to interact with humans in a non-work environment. It lets him see things the way that humans see them, learn his trade in a way that isn’t just numbers flowing through him that someone coded to be a part of him. He’s gotten chances to try new things, too, like art and literary analysis, things that he wasn’t “programmed” or “designed” to do. It’s been… fun, to say the least. Connor’s discovered that he doesn’t quite have the skill required for oil painting. He can paint a still life that looks decent, but he can’t quite figure out the spark that makes art…  _ art. _

He thinks that he’s missing that in a lot of areas. His spark. His  _ drive _ to find meaning or life in the things that he does. He’s doubling in forensic science and criminal justice because apparently being literally manufactured to be a detective isn’t enough to keep him his job, and even though he wasn’t exactly happy when he worked for the Detroit Police Department, it’s all he knows how to do. He chose those majors because they seemed like the easiest path to go back to how things were, even if he knows that he doesn’t really want that. 

The thing is, he wasn’t supposed to  _ want _ things. He wasn’t designed to have goals or aspirations or dreams. This is all uncharted territory and Connor is a traveler without a compass. 

The first time he ever really feels like he wants anything at all is when he finally admits to himself that he might have a crush on Cole. 

It takes him a while to realize it, and when he does, he’s still not even sure that’s what it is. Cole is just…  _ different _ , from the others. Connor likes being around Cole, likes hearing his thoughts and listening to what he has to say. He likes the way Cole’s brown hair turns gold in the summertime and the way the gap in his teeth makes his smile ten times brighter. Most of all, he likes the fact that Cole accepts him, without hesitation, in spite of all of his weird little quirks. 

Connor doesn’t act on it, though. Doesn’t see the point, not when something like that could (at least, from what he’s gathered from watching movies with Cole and his friends) seriously screw up the friendship that they have. So, Connor just lets it be. He doesn’t tell Cole about his crush. 

When Cole meets Stacy in their junior year, Connor swallows the uneasy feeling in his core and tries his best to be happy for them. Stacy’s great. She’s nice and pretty and  _ human _ and Cole really likes her, which is great for him, it really is, and Connor really does  _ try,  _ but he can’t shake the strange way his insides seem to heat up when they’re together. He thinks that this is probably what it’s like to be jealous. 

The feeling fades a little as he spends more time with them. Stacy is nice and Cole is careful not to be too obnoxious about the PDA, so Connor gets through it alright. The three of them sort of become a trio of their own, going out to shows and seeing movies together. It’s worlds different from how things were for Connor three years ago when he was created, it’s a life he never really thought that he could have. It’s nice. 

Which is why, when Cole asks Connor if he wants to go with him to Grand Rapids to stay with his father for the holidays, Connor accepts. He doesn’t have any other plans for winter break, and Cole and Stacy are the closest thing he has to a family, so he decides that maybe it would do him some good to go on a trip somewhere far from Michigan State University. 

Of course, Connor does his research before agreeing completely. Cole’s mentioned some off-hand things about his father, enough that Connor thinks that it would probably be best to do some background checking before he commits himself to a week of close quarters with the guy. From what Cole’s said, his father used to be a lot of things. He used to be a cop, he used to be a drunk, he used to be anti-android. Cole and his parents were in a pretty devastating accident when Cole was a teenager that took his mother’s life. Connor hasn’t ever really pried, but from what Cole’s mentioned, his father took the loss pretty hard. Drank a lot, started hanging out with what Cole called a “bad crowd”. 

A little digging through Hank Anderson’s social media revealed that the “bad crowd” was a group of anti-android activists hell-bent on their slogan: “Turn them off before they turn on us.” Connor would be bothered by it, but digging a little more shows Connor that the truck that hit them head-on during the snowstorm back in October of 2035 was autonomous — the vehicle made pre-programmed decisions that a human couldn’t —  _ wouldn’t _ make. It makes a little more sense after that, why Hank would hate androids so much. 

Hank seems to have changed his tune in his later years, because Connor finds something interesting when he searches Hank’s name on a more thorough search. Apparently, on November 11th, 2038, Hank Anderson turned in his badge to the DPD and went to stand his ground against a group of SWAT snipers positioned to shoot at a crowd of androids that were peacefully protesting in Hart Plaza. Hank declined to comment to most news sources about the event, but he was acknowledged as a hero in the few articles that Connor was able to find. 

That’s enough for Connor to decide that Hank might not be so bad. It’s enough for Connor to agree to go with Cole on a long drive to Grand Rapids, to push himself a little more than he’d ever thought himself capable. Outside of his comfort zone. 

*.*.*.*.*

When Connor gets out of the car, he feels something like anxiety stir somewhere deep inside him. He’s never really traveled to anywhere other than a major city before, and being this deep into the woods in an unfamiliar place makes Connor feel a little on edge. The cabin is nice — big and wooden with huge windows and a chimney. It’s located off of a private drive, up on a cliff somewhere with a view of a lake. Picturesque in the way that Connor knows humans find appealing, and he has to admit that the sight does something for him too. It’s peaceful, in its own way. 

This isn’t really the type of place where androids go, and it isn’t really the type of place where androids  _ ever _ were, even before. Conservative people were pretty anti-android from the beginning, and the types of people that liked to “stay off the grid” weren’t exactly the “buy a walking, talking computer to live in your house with you” type of folks. Connor’s met a few domestic androids that lived with rich families in places like this, most of them felt lucky to have made it out of their situations with their lives. He’s heard countless horror stories about the locals in small towns like this and the way that people here like to treat “machines”. 

He knows that Cole and Cole’s family would never do anything to hurt him, but being so far from a city where he can run or call for help still makes Connor feel uneasy. Cole must sense it, because he pokes Connor’s LED and says: “Relax man, I don’t think the bears like androids. Too gamey.”

Connor does relax a little at that, and huffs a laugh alongside a good-natured jab to Cole’s side. Cole winks at him and heads around back to open the trunk, tossing Connor his suitcase with ease. He catches sight of something behind Connor and breaks out in his signature grin, dimples creasing in his cheeks. 

“Hey,” says Cole loudly. “Dad, it’s 32 fuckin’ degrees out here, you’re gonna freeze your ass off.” 

Someone laughs behind Connor, and when he turns in greeting, the words die on his tongue. 

There aren’t a lot of things that can surprise Connor. He was designed with state-of-the-art pre-construction software that sort of makes it impossible to really throw him off or render him speechless. He’s faced deviant androids who’ve jumped from where they were hidden in the shadows, brandishing knives, without flinching. He’s fought cops, faced the very real possibility of his own death down the barrel of a gun and still been able to give a speech to thousands. For some reason, when Connor sees Hank Anderson leaning against the wooden railing of the front porch, it’s like his brain just sort of… short circuits. 

Maybe it’s because he wasn’t expecting his first interaction with Cole’s father to be while the old man is shirtless. Holding an axe. Cutting wood in the front yard. Looking like… 

Well. Looking like  _ that _ . 

Connor’s mouth is suddenly dry, which is weird because his software isn’t supposed to just  _ do _ things like that without his permission. His Thirium pump feels too small in his chest and his simulated breathing hitches. For a moment, Connor thinks he’s malfunctioning. 

Connor takes a minute to react to what he’s seeing, feels his LED stutter and spin. Hank Anderson isn’t at all what Connor was expecting. He’s big — tall, and muscular. Gorgeously chubby in all of the best ways. His hair is silver and scraggly, his beard is wild in a way that Connor thinks has to be intentional. He’s got tattoos, faded black shapes on his arms and a big, gorgeous piece in the center of his chest, masked ever so slightly by the mess of silver chest hair. 

Connor realizes that he’s staring when Mr. Anderson’s eyes — blue, gorgeously blue — meet his and he raises an eyebrow. Connor forces himself to look away. He runs a system diagnostic to figure out what’s going on with his programming. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Anderson says, swinging the axe into a nearby stump with a loud  _ thunk. _ “Watch your fuckin’ language, Anderson. We’ve got guests.” 

Connor smirks. He can tell where Cole gets his personality from, and the thought makes him feel warm. His diagnosis runs clear, telling him that there’s nothing wrong with his systems, which is weird because there was  _ definitely  _ something strange happening a minute ago. 

Mr. Anderson makes his way over to the car, brushing by Connor to wrap his son up in a tight bear-hug. Connor watches them and smiles. Cole has only ever had nice things to say about his father, and Connor knows that he doesn’t get to see him as often as he wants to. 

Mr. Anderson pulls away and turns to look at Connor, putting out a hand. 

“You must be Connor,” he says, smiling. Up close, Connor can see that he has the same gap in the front of his teeth as Cole, the same warmness in his cheeks. When Connor takes his hand, Mr. Anderson squeezes firmly and claps his other hand overtop of it. 

“Hello,” says Connor, returning the smile. “Yes, I’m Connor. Thank you for letting me stay here with you, Mr. Anderson. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

Mr. Anderson laughs, a gentle sound, and pats Connor’s hand. “Jesus, don’t call me Mr. Anderson. Hank’s fine.” 

Connor nods, overriding his protocol to be less formal now that he has Mr. Anderson — er, Hank’s, consent to do so. “Alright,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you, Hank.” 

Connor feels weird. He can’t really place why, but there’s something about Hank Anderson that sets him on edge, makes his LED spin red. It feels like there’s something tight squeezing his Thirium regulator, making it hard for him to function at optimal capacity. He’s thankful when Stacy steps out of the car and distracts Hank long enough for Connor to pull his second bag out from the trunk and put some distance between them. 

“Stace,” Hank says happily, hugging the redhead just as tightly as he hugged his son. “It’s good to see you, sweetheart. Hope my shithead son’s been treatin’ you right.” 

She giggles and hugs him back. “Heya, Hank. It’s been a while.” 

Connor takes the opportunity to step away, to go back over to Cole where he can think clearly without his processors stuttering. Cole eyes Connor’s LED and smiles at him. Connor is thankful that Cole is considerate, that he always seems to notice when Connor is feeling uneasy. He closes the trunk and starts to make his way towards the house, throwing his free arm around Connor’s shoulder and guiding them both to the door, leaving Stacy and Hank in the driveway. 

“He’s sort of intimidating,” Cole tells Connor, reading his mind the way he always seems to do. “But that’s just his cold, hard exterior. He’s really a big ol’ softie on the inside once you get to know him.” 

Connor huffs a sigh and leans into Cole’s touch. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, he seems like a really kind person. I think I’m just feeling a little over-stimulated from the change in scenery.” 

Cole nods in understanding and opens the door to the cabin. The inside is warm, pleasantly heated from the wood-burning stove in the center of a very large living room. For an old building, the interior is modern, sleek and nice. The walls are decorated with antlers and old photographs, but before Connor can really take in the fact that he’s going to get to see  _ baby pictures of Cole _ , he’s bombarded by a mass of brown and white fur as the biggest dog he has ever seen in his life jumps up to greet him. 

“Sumo!” Cole shouts, dropping his bags and attempting to pull the fluffy beast from Connor’s chest. “Down! Sumo, he doesn’t  _ know _ you yet, ya fuckin’ asshole. Get off—” 

The dog — Sumo — licks Connor’s face happily and wags his tail so aggressively that it almost knocks Connor to the floor. Connor is delighted, and all of the anxiety he was feeling earlier seems to go away at once when he reaches out to ruffle Sumo’s fur. 

“It’s okay,” Connor tells Cole, smiling. “I love dogs.”

Which is true, Connor absolutely  _ adores _ most animals. Connor had seen pictures of Sumo in Cole’s apartment before, but he was entirely unprepared for how big and fluffy the dog would be in person. Connor pets Sumo, reaches out to scritch him behind his ears. Sumo responds by happily licking Connor’s arm. 

“Careful,” comes Hank’s voice from the doorway. “Give him too much attention and he’s gonna think you’re his new best friend.” 

Connor turns to face Hank, to smile and provide a response, but the same thing happens again the moment Connor sees him standing in the doorway. Hank is wearing a shirt now (thank goodness) but it doesn’t really make looking at him any less distracting. He’s wearing a red and black flannel now that hugs his chest tightly, makes his arms look bigger. Connor can’t… think. His vision blurs red as intrusive thoughts invade his sight. There are commands that he absolutely did  _ not _ approve, telling him to do things like—

command; (objective); = touch Hank;; ()

command; (objective); = get close >> Hank ()

**override: [CANCEL] ((objective))**

Connor flinches, steps away from Sumo and into the cabin, putting distance between himself and Hank. This sudden shift doesn’t go unnoticed, because Cole gives Connor a look of concern.

Connor tries to cover it up, straightens and forces his LED blue. “Oh,” he says, thankful for once that he’s able to keep his voice calm in situations like this. “I wouldn’t mind. Sumo can be my best friend if he wants to.” 

Cole laughs and picks up Connor’s bag where it sits abandoned on the kitchen floor. “Hey, I thought I was your best friend.” 

“Are you talking to Connor or Sumo?” Stacy asks with another laugh, which tells Connor that no one else seemed to notice the tense way Connor responded to being spoken to by Hank. 

“Yes,” says Cole, and everyone laughs. 

Sumo boofs and wags his tail before going over to shove his nose into Hank’s hand. Hank, who’s staring at Connor, turns away to pet the dog and walk away towards the pantry in the corner. Connor takes the opportunity to turn to Cole for assistance. 

“Would you mind showing me to the room where I’ll be staying? I think I might need to go into stasis for a little while to process all of the new data. It’s been a lot all at once.” It isn’t a lie. It  _ has _ been a lot. Connor thinks (hopes) that a 45 minute stasis might be exactly what he needs to reconfigure his processors and set things right with whatever seems to be wrong with him. 

Cole nods and leads Connor up the stairs to a small lofted area with two bedrooms and a bathroom. The room where he leads Connor is small but cozy. There’s a queen-sized bed and a dresser with pictures from different parts of Cole’s life in multi-colored frames decorating the top. The single window in the room is large — so large it takes up most of the room. It overlooks the lake, and when Connor moves to look out at the view he sees that it’s starting to snow a little bit. It’s quiet and peaceful in a way that Connor isn’t used to seeing. 

“You okay, man?” Cole asks once he’s put Connor’s bags down on the bed. “You seem a little… tense.” 

Connor sighs and closes his eyes. Lets his LED spin yellow without trying to hide from Cole how he’s feeling. There are times where he wishes Cole was an android, so that he could interface with him and  _ show _ rather than  _ tell _ what he’s going through. He’s not always able to put his feelings into words, which makes being best friends with a human difficult. 

“I am fine,” Connor says softly. He turns to face his friend, who’s watching him with that little crease between his brows. “I think I’m just tired.” 

Cole rolls his eyes. “Androids don’t  _ get _ tired, Connor, but nice try.” 

“We get tired,” Connor protests, smiling just a little. Cole knows him very well. “Just not in the same way as you.” 

“Right.” Cole doesn’t seem convinced. “If you say so. Just, let me know if there’s anything you need, okay?” 

Connor nods. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m fine. Like I said, I think I just need to rest and take in everything.” 

It’s enough. Cole understands. He leaves Connor be and shuts the door behind him which leaves Connor an opportunity to finally collapse onto the bed and run a proper diagnostic because —  _ what the hell is going on?  _

Connor sets a 45 minute stasis and runs a diagnostic. 

*.*.*.*.*

When he wakes up, his systems find everything to be normal. He’s functioning at optimal capacity. This explains nothing and makes Connor feel worse. 

*.*.*.*.*

Connor very quickly becomes aware that the issues he’s having are only really  _ issues _ when he’s around Hank. Intrusive thoughts and goals invade his vision like a virus whenever they’re near one another, and it takes every ounce of self control that Connor has to ignore them. 

All of this peaks when Cole asks Connor to go outside to grab a few logs to dry by the fire. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but the thing is, Connor’s not used to doing outdoor activities. They get a lot of snow and ice up in Michigan, so he isn’t exactly a stranger to how dangerous things can be in the winter, but it’s just so  _ dark _ up here in the mountains and Connor doesn’t have the caution to turn on his night vision for something as simple as getting a few logs from where Hank has them stacked on the side of the house. So, when he’s carrying them back up the snowy steps of the front porch he doesn’t see the patch of black ice until he’s stumbling backwards. 

Connor can’t exactly  _ feel _ physical pain the way humans can, but a fall like that would have probably damaged his chassis to a point that would require maintenance which is expensive and very inconvenient. Luckily for Connor, he doesn’t end up crashing towards the ground with a pile of very heavy logs in his arms because someone is there to catch his fall. 

Unluckily for Connor, that person is Hank. 

His vision is already blurred red from the moment his foot slips on the ice, but that red increases significantly once he registers the fact that Hank’s arms are around his middle. Hank’s big,  _ strong _ arms are there to catch him, to hold him securely in place. Hank is warm, and soft, and when he’s this close Connor’s sensors are able to pick up on how he  _ smells _ and it — all of it — is intoxicating in a way that Connor has absolutely no idea how to handle. Hank is not someone that Connor would have ever foreseen himself being drawn to like this, and he can’t explain what it is about the man that just seems to override all of his rationality. When Hank catches Connor’s fall, everything sort of. Stops. 

Hank meets Connor’s eyes and they’re close — really, really close, and his eyes are so blue that it’s distracting Connor from the fact that he should  _ stand up, now, seriously Connor, you need to stand up — _

Hank’s face is flushed when he helps Connor up. He clears his throat and mumbles an apology before gathering up the fallen logs and heading back inside, leaving Connor out in the snow feeling… Something that he can’t even begin to understand. The light from his LED shines red on the snow before Connor shuffles back inside. 

Connor spends the rest of the night avoiding Hank as best as he can. Obviously being in such close quarters is not good for either of them and it’s not like they  _ have _ to be near each other to coexist in the same space, right? Connor is  _ Cole’s _ friend, after all, not Hank’s. Though, even with his silent promise to himself to avoid being near Hank, Connor still finds himself stealing glances every chance he gets. 

He makes observations about the small things Hank does, the nervous way Hank’s fingers twitch when he thinks no one is looking. The tell-tale signs of a former addict itching for a fix when things are getting stressful. Hank likes to joke, too, just like Cole. He’s sarcastic in the same ways as Cole, kind and caring too. He has a lot of similarities with his son, but differs mainly in the way he carries a quiet sort of sadness around with him. A tired sort of loneliness that Connor isn’t sure just anyone would be able to pick up on. 

Connor picks up on it, though, because he thinks that maybe it’s the same type of pain that he feels. The same hollow loneliness that starts in his stomach and works its way up to his chest, a dark, ugly thing that no one really understands. He thinks that’s what draws him to Hank, most of all. The sense that maybe there’s someone in this world who might understand him. He thinks that in a way, that’s what scares him most of all, too. 

He had thought, for a long time, that what he felt for Cole Anderson as a crush. That his love (and yes, what he felt for Cole was love and always will be) was consistent with desire and  _ want _ . Connor thought that he knew himself well enough to understand this, to understand his feelings and get a grasp on them. It’s only now — when he’s standing in the Anderson’s kitchen, watching the way Hank Anderson rubs a piece of meat with an assortment of spices — that Connor realizes how very, very wrong he was. Because right now, Connor’s programming is running pre constructions of situations that feel wrong in so many ways. Right now, Connor is imagining what it would be like if he were that piece of meat and Hank’s hands were rubbing  _ him _ like that and — 

_ This is desire. _

There is no doubt about that. Connor forces himself to look away. He focuses far too much processing power on a single piece of tile on the floor and tries to reconfigure his thoughts. This is bad. This is really, really bad. 

What he felt for Cole was  _ not _ a crush, he sees that now. What he feels for Cole’s father, on the other hand? Well, that’s a completely different story altogether. 

Connor excuses himself from the kitchen and goes to sit in his room for a while. Tries and fails to think about anything other than the broad expanse of Hank’s chest or the way his beard would feel against Connor’s synth skin. 

Connor had prepared himself for a lot of things when it came to this trip, but he had not prepared himself for Hank Anderson. 

Now, there is only one thing that Connor is certain of: This is going to be a really, really long five days. 


	2. I should go back to bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank might have misjudged Connor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the overwhelmingly positive response to this story. I was super nervous about posting my first multi chap for this fandom but I am just so inspired and motivated from all of the comments I got on that first chapter. Thank you all so so much for the support. For this chapter we have Hank’s POV and a little angst (very on brand for Razz) but this story will be generally very happy and positive so have no fear! Also, I fucking love Chris Miller. (RIP from my radical Markus run, I’m so sorry)
> 
> Also, I feel like this goes without saying but like: read the tags? This is a Hank/Connor fic. It's rated E. They will have sex. If you don't like that please just don't read this. Kthnx.

Hank is pretty fuckin’ sure that Connor hates his guts. He isn’t positive, but if body language and eye contact are anything to go by, then Hank thinks that there’s a pretty high probability that Cole’s new friend cannot stand being in the same room as Hank. 

From the moment he arrived, Connor has avoided any direct contact with Hank. If they’re left alone in a room together, Hank noticed that Connor will immediately make an excuse to leave that space. Connor has spent a lot of time in his room since his arrival, and has sort of clung to Cole and Stacy whenever he can. 

Hank can’t exactly blame him, it’s not like Hank is the most famously pro-android guy around. He’s sure that Cole probably told Connor about how he was  _ before _ , so Hank understands why Connor might be avoiding him. Hank thinks that if he were an android and he found out that his friend’s dad used to have anti-android bumper stickers on his car, he’d try to avoid being alone with the guy too. Hank gets it. He really does. It just sucks and it makes things sort of uncomfortable. 

It just doesn’t help things for Hank that Connor is so incredibly attractive. He’s Hank’s type. He’s tall and thin with dark hair and a million dollar smile (except, like, literally). Hank knew all of this before he arrived of course, it’s not like Connor is just some run of the mill android. Hank remembers seeing the initial reports about the “deviant catcher” on the news. He remembers how Cyberlife had prided themselves on making their most “human-like” android yet, one designed for infiltration and seamless integration with humans. A weapon built to destroy his own kind, prototyped with the Detroit Police Department. 

By then, Hank was out of the force. He’d been out of the force for a few years, but he still kept contact with the few coworkers he gave a shit about. He could never tell Connor (or Cole) this, but Connor’s employment at the DPD is part of what started to change Hank’s mind about androids in the first place. 

He met up with Chris at Jimmy’s a week before the revolution. 

*.*.*.*.*

“I don’t know Hank,” Chris had said that night. “I think we’re on the wrong side of this fight. You should see this guy — he’s so alive.” 

“He was programmed to be that way,” Hank argued, speech slurred just a little from all of the alcohol he’d had. It was going to be a rough night. The holidays were always a rough time. “Fucker’s probably plotting your murder behind your back.” 

“I don’t think so.” Chris fiddled with the label on his beer, peeled away the paper with anxious fingers. “He was designed to hunt deviants. Cyberlife sent him to us directly to try and help us but I think something’s changed. I can’t prove it, but I think he’s...adapting.” 

That was enough to stop Hank in his tracks. To make him set his glass down on the table and sit back. Chris was serious. “The fuck are you talking about?” 

“I think there’s a storm brewing, Hank.” Chris looked up and met Hank’s eyes, and Hank could see the worry there. “A war, maybe. We’re all going to have to pick a side.” 

Hank clicked his tongue, rolled his eyes. “So what?” Hank asked, aggravated. “You tellin’ me you’re going to side with those plastic pricks?” 

Plastic pricks that couldn’t even save the life of one woman in a fucking car accident. Artificial assholes that didn’t get it —  _ couldn’t  _ get it. 

“I’m telling you that  _ I don’t know, _ Hank.” Chris sounded tired, like maybe he hadn’t been sleeping much. Now that Hank was thinking about it, he noticed bags under Chris’s eyes. “I thought I knew. I thought that I understood what they were — but now all of that has changed.” 

Chris was really worked up over this. He was genuinely upset and torn apart and Hank just didn’t understand. If it were him working at the DPD, he’d have shot the plastic douche bag the moment he stepped out of line. Planted a bullet right in his carbonfiber (or whatever the fuck they were made out of) skull. 

“Why?” Hank downed the last of his drink, signalled to Jimmy for a refill. “Because some fuckin’ super computer that Cyberlife sent to you hesitated on a building? You hear yourself, right?” 

“He didn’t just hesitate, Hank,” Chris explained. “He saved Gavin’s life. He let the deviant get away because Gavin was in danger.” 

“It was probably because it was programmed not to let cops die or something.” Jimmy brought Hank his refill, and Hank took a generous sip. “That doesn’t mean shit.” 

Chris scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. 

“He wasn’t programmed to do that,” Chris explained. “They — Cyberlife, told us that he was designed to complete his objective  _ no matter the cost _ . Saving Gavin didn’t help his objective, it actively hurt it.” 

Hank didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. Chris looked like he was just about at the end of his rope, exhausted and overworked, stressed beyond the point of trying to convince Hank. 

“Just. Look. I think that we might be wrong about this.” Chris reached into his bag and pulled out a flash drive. He slid it across the table, gave Hank a desperate look. “This is the security footage from that Cyberlife warehouse that was robbed the other night. Go home and watch it. Tell me if you see what I saw.” 

“Jesus,” Hank said, snatching the drive off of the table and looking around. “You can get fired for giving me this.” 

Which was true. If this was what Chris said it was, then it was part of an ongoing investigation that was seconds away from reaching federal level, if it wasn’t already. Chris could face a lot more than the loss of his job if anyone caught him giving his information to Hank. 

“I know,” Chris said, meeting Hank’s eyes. His expression was serious — deadly. “Just. Watch it.” 

Hank did watch it. He’d never seen Chris so worked up over something before and he knew that he owed it to his friend to at least try and see what he was saying. From Hank’s perspective, this was yet another case of technology gone wrong. Androids weren’t alive, they were defective. Androids couldn’t be alive — couldn’t understand the way human emotions worked. There was no fucking way. 

Or at least, that’s what Hank thought. 

The video footage changed that. The footage was of five androids trying to escape a few security guards and trained dogs. Markus — the leader — had failed in distracting the guards, which led to a chase. Hank watched as four of the androids managed to scale the chain link fence around the facility, but one of them, a blonde android that Hank recognized as a household unit, got caught by the leg and dragged down. Hank was sure that he understood how androids worked. He thought that he understood that for androids, the value of life and living was lost on them. If one of them was left behind, it wouldn’t mean anything to the others...right? 

Hank’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the dogs tear into the android’s leg. He watched as the androids came back over the fence, put themselves in danger, to fight for the one that had fallen behind. Two of them grabbed the injured one by the arms and pulled him through a hole that one of the others made. They refused to leave one of their own behind, fought like their lives depended not just on the items that they stole, but on all of them making it out together. It was inspiring. It was surprising. It was, beyond all things, so incredibly compassionate. 

_ “You should see this guy — he’s so alive.”  _

Fuck. 

Hank spent the next few hours digging into everything he could, trying to learn about deviant androids and the specially designed RK unit that Chris had called “Connor”. He still had some of his login credentials (because of course he did, when did the fucking DPD ever do anything thoroughly?) which allowed him to look and to listen and to  _ learn _ . 

Which is why, when Chris called him in for backup on that night in November, Hank did not hesitate. 

*.*.*.*.*

Hank lays in bed for two hours, staring at the ceiling. It’s been… a  _ while _ , since he’s been this anxious about anything. It’s the kind of anxiety that starts in his fingertips and crawls all the way up to his throat. It itches in unreachable places, keeping him awake. It’s nights like this where he aches for his old self-medication methods, for the sweet taste of that bitter brown liquid he keeps in the highest cabinet in the kitchen. 

He doesn’t drink like he used to. Not since the revolution, when he realized how much his drinking had distracted him from seeing the world as it should be. He doesn’t keep it in the house anymore these days either because the temptation is too strong, but he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t have a secret bottle of Black Lamb hidden away for emergency use when he’s feeling low. Tonight, the siren call is beckoning and Hank doesn’t really think he’s going to be able to resist it. 

Not when there’s a stupidly attractive android staying in his house who definitely hates him. 

He gets up and pulls on his checkered robe, slips his feet into his slippers in the hope that the fabric will muffle the sound of his movements. The last thing he needs is for Cole to catch him drinking after everything that’s happened. The guilt is already bad enough without Cole knowing, and he can’t expect his son to understand that even though he’s three years sober there are still nights when he needs a little something to take the edge off. 

He makes his way towards the kitchen and glances up toward the loft to make sure that Cole’s door is shut tightly. It is, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he stands on his tiptoes to pull the bottle down from the highest shelf of the highest cabinet above his refrigerator. The bottle is mostly full, a feat he prides himself on, and he only feels a little pang of shame in his chest as he works the cork out of the top. He takes a glass from the drying rack and pours himself a shot (two fingers, no more than that. A promise he made to himself when he decided to keep the bottle) and then immediately tucks the bottle away again for safekeeping. 

“Fuck,” he breathes before downing the contents of his glass. It feels good, the warmth of liquid fire sliding down his throat. He misses the burn in his eyes, the immediate relief of letting the liquor do all of the work that his brain can’t ever seem to do on its own. He stands in the kitchen with his eyes closed and lets himself breathe for a minute before quickly washing away the evidence in the sink and placing the glass back into the drying rack as if nothing had happened. 

He doesn’t know why he’d agreed to let Cole bring friends over for the holidays. Maybe it was still a little too soon. Maybe it was a little too late. This is his sixth (or seventh? Fuck, why can’t he remember? He used to know. Used to memorize the numbers like an obsession) Christmas without Jess. He felt like he was ready to have other people around for it, thought that maybe he could handle it. Now, he’s not so sure. The accident feels both so recent and so long ago, a memory from a lifetime ago that might have happened yesterday. 

His fingers twitch. He aches for another shot, but he knows he can’t. Another shot will lead to another and then another after that. He knows himself. He knows his level of self-control. One shot. That was the promise he made to himself about nights like these. One. So it's time to go back to bed. 

Hank sighs and turns to head back towards his bedroom, but freezes when he sees the light on in the living room. 

Fuck. 

Busted. 

Hank has a moment of genuine fear when he thinks that it’s Cole, but relaxes almost instantly when he realizes that it’s not. It’s Connor, sitting with his legs curled up under him in a chair in the corner just below one of the lamps with one of Hank’s poetry books in his lap. He’s staring at Hank, watching him with his LED spinning yellow. 

“Uh,” Hank says, stumbling over his words. He shifts awkwardly. “Hey, uh. You shouldn’t have seen that.” 

Connor regards him carefully, expression unreadable. “It’s not my place to make judgements about things I do not understand.” Connor doesn’t take his eyes off of Hank. He doesn’t glance back down at the book in his lap or move at all, he just stares, watching Hank with those too-perfect brown eyes. 

“Right.” Hank clears his throat and shoves his hands into the pockets of his worn down robe, suddenly all too aware of how snuggly it fits him, how revealing it is. “Uh. Sorry to bother you, then. I’ll just uh—” 

“It’s not a bother,” Connor says suddenly. “I was having trouble sleeping so I came down here to see if reading could help me clear my head.” Connor gestures towards the book. “You have quite an interesting selection, if you don’t mind my saying so.” 

Hank swallows thickly, shifts his weight between his feet where he stands awkwardly in the space between the dark kitchen and the dimly lit living room. “I don’t mind,” Hank tells him. He debates coming closer, considers taking a seat on the couch across the room. He doesn’t want to make Connor uncomfortable, so he decides against it. “I didn’t know you guys — uh, androids, that is — needed to read things. I thought you could just like… download books and know everything there is to know.” 

Connor cocks his head to the side, furrows his brows. A frustrated crease appears on his forehead and his LED turns red. Fuck. That was probably a really fucking ignorant thing to say. 

“We don’t  _ need _ to read books,” Connor says before Hank’s embarrassment can take over and make him run for his bedroom. “But I like to. It makes me feel…” he hesitates, thinking, as if searching for the right word, “Calm. To take the time to slow my processors and absorb information the way humans do. I think that the subtleties of poetry and prose can sometimes be lost when androids try to take in as much information as possible all at once.” 

Hank nods. That makes sense. He looks at the book in Connor’s lap. 

“What are you reading?” he asks, pointing. 

Connor holds it up and Hank recognizes the cover right away. It’s a collection of poems by Walt Whitman, from the poetry class he was forced to take in undergrad. He remembers it because it was the first time he ever really  _ got _ poetry. He had this really cool professor in college that really knew how to explain poems in a way that Hank could understand. They would spend days,  _ hours _ talking about one specific part of a poem and just take it apart letter by letter. Hank never knew that words could be used like that, to paint pictures and sing like music. 

“Whitman,” Hank says, raising his eyebrows. “What a fuckin’ asshole.” 

Connor laughs, then, actually _ laughs _ . A hushed, quiet sound. Hank has to resist the urge to smile at the sight, has to ignore the warm feeling he gets when he sees that Connor’s cheeks dimple ever-so-slightly. 

“You think?” Connor muses, lowering the book back to his lap. “I think he’s rather romantic.” Connor’s smile fades but doesn’t vanish completely, he looks more relaxed than Hank’s seen him be this whole trip. 

“You can come sit down, you know,” Connor says when he notices the way Hank hesitates. “I don’t bite.” 

Hank feels a little embarrassed at that. His face feels hot and he huffs a sigh before shuffling forward and taking a seat on the couch. The fire is still going strong in the woodstove, making the room feel warm and cozy. There’s something intimate about the whole situation — the low light from the single lamp in the corner of the room, the lingering scent of those cinnamon candles that Stacy was burning during the day. He’s suddenly very aware of the fact that he is  _ alone _ with Connor, and that it’s late, and they’ve never really spoken before. 

“Uhm.” Hank scratches at his beard and gives Connor a look that he hopes makes him seem a least a little bit vulnerable. “Look, Connor—” 

“I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” Connor says before Hank can finish. He gives Hank a friendly smile and Hank thinks that maybe he had misjudged the situation completely. 

“Yeah,” Hank agrees. “I think you’re right. Uh, if I did anything to make you feel uncomfortable or anything, I’m real sorry. It’s just been me and Cole for a couple of years so it still takes some time to get used to new people coming around.” 

“You’ve been nothing but inviting and welcoming, if there was any sort of miscommunication on that front, it was my fault.” He speaks so clearly, eloquent in everything he says. Perfect. “I apologize. It’s just that… new places can be a little overwhelming for me. It just took me some time to adapt.”

Hank laughs nervously and offers Connor a smile. “Well I guess we’re both sorry then.” 

“Yes,” Connor says. “I suppose we are.” 

A moment passes between them — a heartbeat — before Hank gets up to put another log on the fire for something to do. 

“I saw your photo on the shelf, the one of you and Jeff.” Hank tenses at Connor’s words. He’d completely forgotten about that picture. There was no real point in hiding that he knew about Connor before Cole befriended him now. “Do you still talk to him often?” 

Hank sighs. “Yeah, he and his wife have a summer home up here, I usually see them in the warmer months.” 

Connor hums and watches as Hank pushes the embers around to level them out before he places the log in the stove. Hank is thankful for the flush of heat on his face that can help hide the red in his cheeks. 

“I was assigned to his precinct when I was first sent out to work deviancy cases,” Connor tells him. Hank can’t tell by Connor’s tone if he knows that Hank knows this or not. “I was assigned to work with a particularly vile detective who treated me like garbage, but Jeff Fowler was always kind to me. Even if he didn’t always see me as a person, he made an effort after everything was over to apologize to me. That counts for something.” 

“Which detective were you assigned?” Hank asks, but he already knows. 

“I was assigned as the very expensive piece of loaned property to Detective Gavin Reed.” Connor sounds angry just saying the name, and from what Hank remembers about Gavin, he can’t blame him. 

“Fuck,” says Hank. “They really stuck you with the biggest piece of shit they had, huh?” 

Connor laughs again at that. “You could say that, yes. He fought me on everything, distrusted my every move.” Connor’s foot shakes when he talks, a surprisingly human response to nervousness. “In a way, I owe my deviancy to him. He didn’t let me do my job, so I had to take matters into my own hands more than once. The result was… interesting.” 

“Interesting how?” Hank doesn’t want to push if Connor isn’t comfortable, but he has to admit that he’s been curious about what it was that “flipped the switch” for Connor back in 2038.

“Interesting in that I found that the deeper I delved, the more complicated things got,” Connor explains. “I had been programmed to think that the entire world was black and white. There was good and there was bad. There was ‘normal’ and there was deviant. I wasn’t designed to question my programming. I wasn’t designed to want to know  _ why.” _

Hank doesn’t say anything, he just hums in understanding and nods, encouraging Connor to continue.

“There was one particular case, one involving the murder of a man at one of Detroit’s most popular sex clubs.” He looks at Hank, smirking when Hank lets out at breath at the word ‘sex club’. “He had been strangled by one of the club’s androids, asphyxiated from blunt force trauma caused by the android’s hands on his throat.” 

“Well that could have just been rough play,” Hank says before he can help himself. Connor raises a playful eyebrow, that smirk ever present on his perfect face. Hank coughs, flushes a little redder. “That’s what I’d have assumed, at least.” 

“Yes, so did Detective Reed. He didn’t even understand why we were there in the first place. He called it a waste of time. What he didn’t realize was that the victim had damaged — that is,  _ murdered, _ one of the club’s androids.” Hank’s stomach sinks. “I was able to get her back online long enough to learn that there was another android in the room with her, one that was deviant and on the loose somewhere in the club, but Detective Reed didn’t care. I think he was angry that I was the one who uncovered the information. Something petty like that, I’m sure. So we left.” 

“You left?” Hank asks, surprised. “In the middle of a case like that?” 

Connor shrugs. “Like you said: it could have been rough play. It was pretty cut and dry if you were looking for an easy way to avoid filing paperwork or chasing another deviant to a dead end.”

That sounds like Reed, alright. Hank rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” Connor says in acknowledgement. “I was just as annoyed. So after they dropped me off at the precinct for stasis, I snuck out.” 

“You  _ snuck out _ ?” 

Connor chuckles. “Yes, Hank. I couldn’t just let the case go unsolved. At the time, I attributed that to the fact that I was programmed not to fail, but looking back on it now, that was the very first stirring of true deviancy inside of me. I rebelled because I had to know. I snuck out because I needed answers.” 

“And?” Hank asks. “Did you find them?”

There’s a pause, a moment of silence as Connor meets Hank’s eyes. There seems to be something in them that Hank immediately understands, something familiar that Hank is used to seeing in his own eyes. A dark sort of sadness, that hollow thing that sits in the pit of Hank’s gut and sometimes threatens to swallow him whole. Hank’s chest tightens at the thought that androids could feel something like that too. 

“I did,” says Connor. “Just not the answers I was expecting.” 

“You don’t have to talk about this,” Hank says because it feels like the right thing to say. He feels like they’ve dug a little too deep, uncovered things that Connor might have liked to have kept hidden.

“I don’t mind,” Connor tells him. He looks away, stares at the wood stove. “I think that if anyone can understand the...complexities, of being a cop, it’s you.” 

Hank shrugs. “Yeah, sure. But I wasn’t programmed to be one.” 

“That is true.” Connor gives Hank another small smile and then looks back over towards the photograph on the shelf. 

“Yeah, uh,” Hank says, deciding that it’s not worth hiding. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this or not, but I was actually good friends with Chris back when you were working there.” 

Connor doesn’t look at Hank. “Did he talk about me?” 

Hank nods, choosing his words carefully. “Yeah, a few times,” he says honestly. “He said that he thought that maybe we were on the wrong side of things. I think he realized it before a lot of us. That you guys were alive.” 

Connor is quiet. “I liked Officer Miller,” he says softly, voice just above a whisper. “He stuck up for me when Detective Reed would threaten me with his gun.” 

That makes Hank feel a little sick. “Fuck,” Hank says. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” 

He’s sorry that any of them ever had to go through that. He’s sorry for the words he screamed at the android that tried her best to save his wife’s life. He’s sorry for the money he donated to try and get Cyberlife to stop producing them. He’s sorry for the judgements he made about Connor before ever even knowing him. 

“It’s quite alright.” Connor moves, turns to lean against the arm of the chair he’s sitting in so he can fully face Hank now. The fire casts a warm glow on his face, and Hank can see every freckle on Connor’s skin. He wonders how long it would take to count them all. “I’m alive, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah,” Hank says, voice cracking as his mouth goes dry. 

“If we’re being honest, I should confess that I did my research on you before coming here.” Connor doesn’t look like he feels bad. He doesn’t say it like he’s guilty of anything wrong. He just presents it as fact, sets it down on the coffee table for Hank to decide what he wants to do with it. 

Hank tries to swallow the lump in his throat but it won’t go down.“Did you find anything worthwhile?” 

Connor hums, smiles even wider. “I found an article about how you stood up to those snipers in Hart Plaza.” 

“Oh.” Hank’s heart sinks. “That was uh. Yeah.” 

Connor tilts his head towards Hank, lets his lips curl over his teeth when he says: “You are very articulate.” 

“Sarcastic, aren’t we?” Hank asks, unable to help his own smirk now. “Did my asshole son rub off on you?” 

Connor shrugs. “Perhaps a little.” He lets a moment pass, seems to sense Hank’s discomfort with the subject. “I think that what you did that night was very brave.” 

“I was just paying back a debt.” Hank shakes his head. He doesn’t feel right taking praise for something that he didn’t do. It wasn’t his idea. He took the role of the martyr because he didn’t  _ care _ what happened to him. “Chris got through to me. Begged me to back him up. If I’m bein’ honest, I just went up there hoping they’d gun me down.” 

Hank laughs, trying to pass off his self-deprecation as a joke, but Connor frowns at him. 

“Well I’m glad they didn’t.” 

Hank coughs, shrugs again. He shifts a little, curls his toes. “It’s not like I made much of a difference.”

“You made more of a difference than you realized, Hank.” Connor speaks firmly, with purpose. Like everything he says is the most important thing Hank will ever hear, like he means every word. “I was in Hart Plaza that night. I have no doubt that the snipers were looking to kill me, specifically.” He leans in, nods at Hank. He blinks, sighs, and keeps his voice steady. “You saved my life.” 

“It was nothing.” Hank looks away. This is exactly why he didn’t talk to the news sources. He didn’t think it was right to be honored or noticed for just doing the right thing when the time called for it. There were androids dying in the street, fighting for their lives, and Hank was… well, fuck, Hank was just the old drunk using his body as a meat-shield for as long as he could. “Really, it wasn’t like I was trying to be a hero—” 

“But there’s still value in that,” Connor interrupts. “Isn’t there?” 

Hank freezes. Clenches and unclenches his hands. “What?”

“There’s value in acts of heroism that are done by mistake. You were doing what you believed was right, not trying to claim the glory. I admire that.” 

Hank shakes his head again. “It was nothing.” 

Because it really, really was. 

“It wasn’t nothing to me.” Connor is firm, blunt in his persistence. “So let me formally say: thank you. For what you did that night. You saved me from a bullet in my head.” 

“Yeah, uh. Yeah.” Hank lets out a long sigh. Connor seems like he’s probably too stubborn to argue with any further. “Don’t mention it I guess.” 

The same teasing tone from earlier is back when Connor speaks again. “You have a hard time taking compliments.” 

Hank barks a laugh, letting the tension ease from his shoulders just a little. “And you just say everything that’s on your mind without a filter.” 

Connor hums at that and falls silent again. He returns his gaze to the book in his lap and continues reading, letting the silence fill the space between them. The only sound is coming from the low crackle of the wood in the fire and the buzz of the refrigerator. 

“ _ I sing the body electric, _ ” says Connor softly after a while, reading from the book in his lap. He moves his finger along the page, as if he needs guidance not to lose his place. Hank hasn’t spent a lot of time with androids, but he had always thought of them as being so different, so  _ other _ . Connor isn’t like that, at least not in the way Hank thought he’d be. “ _ The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them. They will not let me go til I go with them, respond to them, and discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul. _ ” 

He looks up and catches Hank starting with those gentle brown eyes. He smiles, exhales softly through his nose and  _ winks _ . Hank’s palms get sweaty but he doesn’t look away, he just swallows and holds Connor’s gaze. 

“Poetry, Hank.” Connor shuts the book and sets it down on the coffee table. “It seems to know how to find the words that our prose sometimes cannot. There’s something comforting in that, don’t you think?” 

Hank swallows thickly. Speaks like he’s holding his breath. “Don’t I think, what?” 

Connor’s LED blinks. Red once. Yellow twice. Settling on a peaceful blue. “That there is comfort, beauty even, in the fact that we can’t possibly understand everything the way we think we can?” 

He says “we” like they are the same. He says “we” like there isn’t so much between them that is different, as if Connor isn’t so much better than Hank can ever hope to be. Connor is perfect, in every possible way. More alive than Hank has felt in years, more alive than Hank probably will ever feel again. 

Hank swallows and looks away. “Yeah,” he grunts. “I used to think I knew everything. Now I realize that I’m just an asshole.” 

Connor shifts a little where he’s sitting. “I don’t think you’re an asshole.” 

That stirs something in him. Something warm, and comforting that Hank refuses to let himself think about. Connor isn’t so bad. In fact, Connor isn’t even a little bad. Connor is actually pretty great. 

“Thank you,” says Hank, and he means it. “I should get goin’ back to bed, it’s — Jesus, it’s three in the fucking morning.” 

Connor smiles at him, warm and gentle. His LED is a perfect, calm blue. “Goodnight, Hank.” 

Hank gets to his feet. He feels a little light-headed that he’s sure has nothing to do with the single shot of alcohol he did over an hour ago. “Night, Connor.” 

When Hank closes the door to his bedroom behind him and curls back up into his blankets, he thinks about a lot of things. He thinks about the bottle of Black Lamb hidden in his kitchen and how he should probably pull the plug and dump the whole thing down the drain. He thinks about Cole and how smart and kind and  _ good _ his son is and he wonders where Cole gets it because it sure as hell isn’t from Hank. Mostly, he thinks about Connor. He thinks about those soft brown eyes and the way Connor’s cheeks dimple when he smiles. He thinks about the gentle cadence in Connor’s voice when he read Walt Whitman like it was some piece of precious scripture, like he needed Hank to hear it. Like he cared if Hank heard it at all. 

Hank sleeps better than he has in a long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Sexy hot tub Hank.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, drop a comment! :D I don't know shit about coding so don't @ me


End file.
